Incarnate: A Breath of Fire II Novelization
by Macalaure
Summary: [II] A novelization of the game loosely based on the characters and events. It has a slightly unique spin which will become more apparent later in the story's progression. The cast is narrowed down in order to focus on their interactions. (More detailed summary inside). On hold until I can find a beta reader, message me.


INCARNATE: A BREATH OF FIRE II NOVELIZATION

~ Macalaure ~

* * *

PROLOG

* * *

"Okāsan!"

The innocent voice of a child cuts through the night, shattering the absolute darkness. The quiet vibrations beat back the shadow and the door to the room opens with barely a sigh.

"What is it, Ryu-chan?"

"I had a bad dream!"

"What do you remember? Dreams are our only window to the spirit world, after all—they tell us our deepest desires and most intimate fears if we only have the courage to listen."

"I, I can't remember."

"Calm, love. Let me read your thoughts."

A figure looms in the near dark and the child can feel warm fingers come to rest on his forehead. In the uncertain light, his mother's mouth is dim curve, whispering in indecipherable movements.

Suddenly, the atmosphere of the room changes. The temperature drops and the woman's body goes rigid, fingers that once radiated warmth now press painfully into the child's skull, sapping all the heat from his skin. Eyes glow behind her closed lids and her head lolls against her shoulder and the will and vision of God takes control. . . .

A young girl rose from her bed, throwing off the bonds of sleep. She rubbed her eyes and looked around, warm light was streaming in from under closed blinds in her room. She leapt from her bed, landing lithely on the floor and danced around the room laughing. With a loud gong, her elbow knocked a vase from a table and it shattered on the floor with a crash. A sharp knock at the door saw the end to her antics and she steadied herself before calling cautiously, "Come in."

The door opened to reveal a Wyndian maidservant who stepped over the threshold and into the room. She tutted her tongue at the girl's rumpled, unmade bed, and the mess of ceramic on the floor, before fixing her with a disapproving stare.

"I heard the most awful racket coming from this room." The maid's voice was low and accusatory, one that always managed to make the girl squirm and flush with guilt. "What on earth were you doing?"

The girl smiled apologetically, giving a sideways glance at the floor. "I was excited for my Wind Day today."

This earned her a rare, tight-lipped smile from the maidservant as she looked briefly but fondly at the heavy down sprouting from beneath her own shoulders. They were a pure and magnificent white and shown with the reflected glow of the light spilling in from under the blinds.

"Ah yes, that is today, is it not. Hard to believe I've known you for seventeen years. Ever since you were a child..."

She stared fondly off into the distance for a moment before snapping back to the present with a stern, "All the same, you shouldn't be making a racket this early on the most important day of your life. Being the princess of Wyndia may have its benefits but it also means they're going to hold a public ceremony for your transformation—which reminds me, I'm to give you this."

The maid held out a large mess of white fabric. The princess took it from her and as she laid it over her bed, the shapeless mess took on the form of an elegant white dress that would not have looked out of place on a bride on her wedding day.

The young girl frowned. "I'm to wear this to my public transformation? Won't that ruin the back?"

The maid shook her head, allowing another brief smile to touch her lips. "This dress was your mother's before you, and her mother's before her. Modifications have been made to protect it."

The princess nodded several times, trying to take in the reality of the situation. She barely noticed the maid letting herself out as she said, "If there's nothing else, I really should be going. They'll expect me in the kitchen to prepare a special meal."

Calmly, standing before a full-length mirror, the princess of Wyndia stripped off her night clothes and stood naked before her reflection. She rubbed the small of her back absently, exploring the smooth skin that ran in contours over her sharp shoulder blades.

She wondered what she would look like with wings...

The rest of the day passed by in a blur until the ceremony was almost upon her. Half-hour before, she disappeared into her quarters to prepare for the public appearance. After bathing, she stood naked once again before the mirror, holding the long white dress before her. She stepped into it, pulling it up the length of her body and over her slim shoulders. It fit snuggly across her chest and the skirt at the bottom rippled like waves on the ocean. She twirled slowly in front of the mirror and was enveloped in white. To an outsider looking down, she was the picture of innocence, a white rose, a wedding bride, or a tiny lamb bundled in layers of thin cotton sheets.

She descended the steps from her room and walked into the throne room where her mother and father were waiting for her. The king of Wyndia placed a silver tiara on her head and led the way out of the castle. They processed down the main street towards a raised dais crafted of veined marble in the center of the city. Here she was instructed to mount the dais and stand facing the crowd. The throngs of people cooed in admiration of the silver and white princess before them.

Her father was suddenly beside her. With his scepter in hand and crowned in gold, she knelt before him.

"Nina, Princess of Wyndia, daughter of myself and Queen Hina, do you accept the full duties and responsibilities of your position, also accepting that upon my death you will be crowned Queen of Wyndia and will accept the full duties and responsibilities of that position as well?"

For a moment her throat went dry and she feared she would be unable to speak. The princess of Wyndia took a slow breath and set her face.

"I do."

"Then accept your due right, as heir of Wyndia."

Her father stepped from the dais and silence engulfed the scene. Then her body was engulfed in golden fire. It was warm and soft and Nina was not afraid, she spread her arms and she could almost feel the weight at the back of her shoulders. Then her vision went and everything went terribly wrong. She felt a frightening bursting sensation in her shoulders and then the pain struck her. She keeled over on the dais, body wracked in agony. Burning whips struck her frail body again and again without pity. Some small part of her broken mind was sane enough to wonder why she had never seen any of the other recipients of the Wing ceremony in such agonizing pain.

As suddenly as it had struck, it was over. The fire died around her as her vision slowly returned and now she truly felt the weight of the her new appendages sprouting from her back. They did not seem strange or unnatural to her, but rather like a part of her that had been trapped inside of her body, waiting all her life to unfurl and kick her aloft and into the sky to ride the high winds.

Then, she became in tune to the environment around her and found it void of applause of cheering. The crowd pandered in low whispers that was like the grating of steel. She looked around nervously, trying to discern what had caused such strife. Something on the fringe of her gaze caught her eye. It stood in hideous, wretched contrast with the beautiful white of her dress and the marble dais. She bent down to pick it up and she heard a collective gasp run through the crowd. She opened her pale, clenched hand like a perverted oyster and bent inside of it was a single feather, it's black gloss shown like polished onyx.

NO!

She threw the thing down in fright and turned to look down at her father. The voice that came from her mouth was more a plea than anything else. "Father."

But the king of Wyndia looked back at her with an expression she had never seen on him before. His eyes blazed with a black fire, a deep-seated pain that could not be healed, as he turned to her and whispered his damnation. "You are no daughter of mine."

He turned now to the crowd, announcing the denial at large, but it seemed as though the only one he was trying to convince was himself. "She is no daughter of mine."

Now that her ears had been opened to the terrible words she found the air rife with them.

"The Mark of the wing!"

"Demon!"

"Curse of Wyndia!"

The princess unfurled her wings ever wider, hoping they would shield her from the damning words, but they provided no refuge. So instead she looked to the heavens. With two great flaps of her wings, she lifted her wretched body from the marble dais and into the waiting arms of the sky. Flying, to her, felt natural and beautiful, and in the magic of flight she was able to leave her family, her life, and her fears behind. She soared over the walls of Wyndia and out into the open country. She flew over fields and forests and mountains.

Finally, when her heart beat fast, and her wings felt like lead, she took rest in a clearing in the woods. She fell to the ground in a heap, mentally and physically exhausted, and now that the exhilaration of flight had left her, she wept tears for what she had left behind. She did not blame her countrymen, or even her father for their treatment of her, for stories of the destruction brought about by the Mark of the wing had been told to her since she was a tiny child. Wyndia had been trained like dogs to react in the most primal manner when confronted with the terror.

Fingers trembling, she dug her hand into a pocket of her dress, and withdrew a long silver knife. She held it high behind her back, and perhaps some logical part of her brain knew she would never garner enough leverage to sever the tendons, but logical reasoning was long lost to the girl caught up in the terror of the Mark.

She closed her eyes, a voice cut through the stillness.

"Please don't do cut off your wings, they're so beautiful."

She turned around in fright, brandishing the knife before her. A little man stepped out of the darkness of the woods. His beard was long and white and reached almost down to his waist, his eyes twinkled with a funny light.

She witnessed her vision blur and shook her head vigorously. "You would not say that if you knew what I know."

The man gave her a tight smile and she was reminded achingly of her maidservant. "You're Nina Wyndia, yes? A tragedy for one so distinguished to bear the Mark."

She gaped in astonishment. The Mark of the wing was a closely guarded Wyndian myth. Along with its telling, young children were instructed never to allow the story to be spread beyond members of the Wyndian race for fear it would be used as a weapon.

The princess swallowed; it mattered not. She was flawed, and there was only one way to fix herself. She drew her hand high above her back once more, but before closing her eyes, she glanced at the old man before her. He was muttering under his breath, hands spinning a web of light before her.

She shut her eyes tight, the knife came down.

"Nina!"

She couldn't help it; the knife stood death still mere inches from the feathery down. She opened her eyes and recoiled. For in front of her stood a mirage, a frightening figure. It was beautiful, but in the way a dragon has beauty. Regal and majestic, but also the knowledge that it is a corruption of purity and innocence.

Nina Wyndia dropped the knife and stared at her reflection in terror. She was Lucifer. . . .

Baba the Bearded stepped confidently into the waiting room of the coliseum. His axe was slung lazily over one shoulder as he sauntered calmly towards the wrought iron door. He rapped sharply and it opened with a moan.

A straight-backed sentry greeted him from behind the door. "How ya doin', Baba?"

The large man flashed a toothy grin his way before making his way down the long hallway. The door swung closed with a thud, locking him in, but Baba had no qualms. Forward was the direction he had intended to go. Baba was not the kind of man to turn back.

As he walked, his small brain pondered his opponent. He had spotted her pacing nervously around her room as he passed by in the main hall. She was a pretty girl, not human by the looks of it, or perhaps she was just an extremely hairy one at that. Baba paused as he took a moment to wonder if her bright orange fur would overshadow his own magnificent beard. Then he nodded confidently to himself as he decided that of course it wouldn't; he was Baba, reigning champion for fourteen straight fights. Anyone who wasn't betting on him and his beard was a fool.

The girl may have been pretty, but her frail body couldn't stand up to a few swings of Baba's axe. Even the big burly men that came to challenge him every other week cowered beneath his mighty blows. His axe had once cleaved the mightiest trees with a single swing. That was before he discovered cleaving the mightiest of men with a single swing paid much better.

His footsteps echoed about the enclosed tunnel and he could hear the roar of the crowd outside. He came to the door and rapped sharply once more with the butt of his axe. It opened and Baba stepped out onto level ground.

The coliseum was a massive building, but most of it was occupied by amphitheater style, rows of seats. There was a small circle of ground in the middle where the fighting took place. As usual, the stadium was packed.

As soon as Baba stepped out into the open, the crowd erupted. His beard and axe had meant he was a fan favorite from the moment he had stepped out of the tunnel the first time to face a squirrelly man with a net and a trident. He had slashed the net in two, followed quickly by the trident, and concluded with the man.

But now the doors opposite him were opening and the girl had stepped out. There was a polite smattering of applause from the audience, but by now they all knew how the fight would end. Baba would play with her for a bit, make it look like a close match, before delivering a single crushing blow and ending the fight in a moment.

A loud voice erupted through the stands, announcing the defending champion, Baba in the southern corner, and the challenger, a Woren whpse name he didn't catch, in the northern corner. Baba did not recognize the voice and assumed that this was the man who had taken over as head of the coliseum after the last manager had suffered a stroke.

Baba didn't waste much of his limited brain space on this thought however, as he gave his opponent a final lookover. She was a bit bigger than he had given her credit for and though she was clearly nervous, she held the heavy staff in a loose grip. That was a common mistake among unskilled challengers. A rigid grip meant, counter-intuitively, that they were more easily disarmed.

The gong sounded and suddenly he lost the girl in a blur. Baba only just managed to leap out of the way as a streak of orange came sailing past him and the heavy swing of her staff smacked into the ground with a force to break bones. Baba had barely a moment to marvel at her speed before she was upon him again, swinging with all her might at his large head. He parried the second blow with his axe, stopping the staff in mid air. The Woren appeared astounded that her strike had went from full speed to standstill, Baba's eyes twinkled.

She leapt back out of the way of his counter attack and turned a lithe backflip into the corner of the stadium. This garnered some cheering and Baba frowned, the fight was getting out of hand. She charged again and her speed was such that Baba was forced to parry once more without any thought of a counter attack. But she changed the angle of her blow at the last moment before she struck and while the force was not quite that of the first two blows, it managed to sneak around his guard and struck him firmly on the hip.

Baba grunted as he felt something crack. This drew a gasp from the audience followed by a surge of cheering. If the Woren was focused, she could have finished him off right there, but she was too caught up in the heat of the moment. She turned another backflip into the corner of the stadium, blowing a kiss at the audience in the process. She lowered her head and charged once more to her injured opponent.

But this time Baba was ready, the Woren had expected him to parry with the axe a third time, so when he ducked instead, she was thrown off balance and tottered to the ground.

Baba grinned as he advanced forward, raising the axe high above his head with two hands. The Woren had been a tougher opponent than usual, but in the end she was no match for Baba and his magnificent beard. He planted one foot on her chest as she struggled to rise and pulled his arms back a little farther.

Then Baba the Bearded felt an acute pain in the small of his back. He turned around in surprise and stumbled two steps backwards. His vision was suddenly blurred and he looked up in confusion. Then there was a streak of motion as the heavy staff struck him in the temple and he collapsed to the ground like a rag doll. What little part of his brain was left functioning tried to curl his body in such a manner to allow him to land on his back, preventing his magnificent beard from coming in contact with the dirt. The last thing he heard as his enormous body hit the ground was the chant echoing throughout the crowded stadium.

"Katt, Katt, Katt. . . ."

The commander-in-chief of the Highlander armies rose from another night of restless sleep. In his dream, he had been driving his army to march against a mighty stone wall that was blocking their passage. His men hammered with swords and spears against the wall, but it would not fall.

The sun rose red over the plains of Goonheim and revealed the massive encampment of soldiers; all of Highfort had been emptied. All around him, men were rising from sleep, rubbing dirt from their eyes, packing their few belongings into the packs on their backs and standing at attention. Such was the discipline of the Highlander military that within a few minutes the entire army had gone from a deep sleep to a cohesive unit ready for action.

The Highlander military was organized in a decimal system and as the commander-in-chief stepped before his army to deliver his speech, his words would be relayed by the unit lieutenants stationed along the front lines which stretched for miles in each direction.

"Look ter th'west!" The Highlander waiting a moment as his words were relayed along the lines.

"Th'red sun rises this mornin'. Th'earth will run red also with the blood of 'ar enemies!"

The front lines thumped their spears against the ground in a resounding crash that made the blood of a millino soldiers run hot in their veins.

"They invaded 'ar territory! They kidnapped 'ar brothers! They pillaged 'ar cities and raped 'ar women!"

"They saw fit ter challenge th'most militarily advanced society in the world!" At this statement, the army, as one unit, began banging feet, swords, and spears against the ground. The booms of several of the cannons sounded in the distance.

"Already 'ar brothers in th'east 'ave attacked the invading forces from the flank. While they're occupied with the recon party, we'll be deliverin' the hammer blow!

"Remember! These man deserve no mercy fer they will show you none. No punishment is too great! They violated th'security of Highfort. But more'n that, they insulted us with the'r suggestion tha'a band of nomads could defeat the most militarily advanced society in th'world.

"Now! Fer death and glory! Fer Highfort! Fer the princess!"

But his battle cry was drowned out in the anthem being rallied throughout the army, one million voices strong.

"Fer 'ar leader, the invincible, Stenanil Legacy!"

The army charged, over the hill and onto the plains where the ground already ran red with blood. Commander Legacy's face went white as he gripped the short sword at his hip. The army charged down the slope and over the mounds of bodies, directly into a solid wall. . . .

And looming above all of it, the Eye. Its omnipresent gaze pierces her very soul, threatening to rend her body with teeth and gnashing claws. . . .

"Okāsan! You're hurting me!"

The women's eyes spring open, grasping desperately for something corporeal to latch onto. Such terror, such hardship, the evils of it threaten to tear her body apart. She can see her fingers connected to the child through a bond of love and it anchors her to consciousness. The childish innocence in his voice is enough to dispel the dark magic; in his shining eyes the terrible visions fade like a desert mirage.

"Forgive me, Ryu-chan, your mother is very tired." She shivers, but already the memory of what she saw is fading from her mind. "Would you like me to tell you a story to help you sleep?"

The boy pulls the covers up to his chin. "Yes, Okāsan."

"Once upon a time, in a magic land, there was a young child named Ryu who lived in a time of turmoil."

"But that's my name!"

"Your namesake, Ryu-chan, you are named after the Light Dragon warrior of ancient myth. For Ryu was born a special child. The world had been torn in two by an age old conflict between the Light Dragon clan and the Dark Dragon clan.

"Now Ryu was not exceptionally smart or strong, but he had one virtue which was greater than all the rest. He was determined, and when the Dark Dragons slaughtered his family and kidnapped his sister he traveled the world wide to rescue her and exact his revenge.

"It was his humanity which gave him strength. His humanity gave him love and determination, and because of this immense determination, and love from his friends that he found along the way, that he never gave up on his task. He faced seemingly insurmountable obstacles, but he never shied away, even when he stood in combat before the Demon Lord disguised as the Goddess of Chaos.

The child's eyes are shining as he stares into the near darkness. "The prince was very brave, wasn't he?"

The women smiles. "Yes, Ryu-chan, the prince was very brave. But the virtue that was really valuable was his fortitude. His greatest weapon was not his sword, but his heart. Despite all the obstacles placed in his way, he never stopped searching for his love, and that is the most honorable part of the story."

"But Okāsan, that was just a pretend story. There are no demons in real life!"

The women looks into the bright young eyes of child. They shine with a purity and an innocence that she cannot bear to corrupt.

"Yes, love, it was just a pretend story."

"Good night, Okāsan"

"Good night, Ryu-chan, sweet dreams."

* * *

The demon lord Aruhamel laughed quietly to himself as the he spun the thread of memory between long, needle-like fingers. As he wove the brilliant tapestry, he looked out over the town of Gate.

People there went about their usual business, unaware of the apocalypse that was drawing steadily nearer. Perhaps if the humans were more in tune with their surroundings they would have noticed trees turning gray, flowers wilting, and the small inhabitants of the forest keeling over unnaturally; there was death in the air.

But no, humans were ignorant, and it was because of this that Aruhamel laughed. His laugh was rich as gold and so powerful that it seemed to make those who heard it forget what had only just been on their mind.

Aruhamel lay down the tapestry before him and looked over it with critical eyes. The time was almost upon them, and each of the demon lords would have a part to play.

Then Aruhamel turned to the Great Tapestry. Here the woven threads were stitched according to all that had happened, was happening, and would happen throughout the land. The demon lord was pleased to find the events that God had predicted had occurred precisely as planned.

All was going according to plan; the fall of man drew near.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

* * *

Here is the prolog for my newest and grandest undertaking, a novelization of Breath of Fire II based loosely on the events of the game.

So here's how this will work out, it is a novelization, but it will not follow the events of the game to the letter. There's a lot of novelizations out there, and I want to write one that is at least slightly unique. It will not feature all of the playable characters as "main characters" but most that don't make the cut will at least have cameos. As Orson Scott Card wrote, the more characters you introduce into a story, the dynamics of each character grows exponentially. I will try to focus on the interactions between five of the characters I find most important to the story.

The updates will be sporadic at best. This is the longest project I've undertaken and there may be months, or God forbid years, where I don't update it but I will promise to do my best to see it through to its finish, whether that be in one year or twenty.

Like the game, I hope the story will be part comedy, part tragedy, and all adventure. Unfortunately, present progression is put on hold until I am able to find an available beta reader. If you are one, or can recommend one from experience, feel free to shoot me a message and I will be eternally grateful.

So I present to you, my magnum opus:

INCARNATE


End file.
